


the midnight interlude

by badAquatic



Series: Trailerstuck [76]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Carapaces sure are weird!, F/M, Illustrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So what are those wacky carapaces up to?</p><p>Takes place some time after "goodbye to bad news".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pressure

**== > Be Droog, waiting for your son to get home **

 

By no stretch of the imagination were you ever nervous about letting Hercul go out and about in the city or go to school and his dojo classes by himself. He was a good kid and he had a good head on his shoulders. That was always the case. However, now you feel nervous. You feel it because the streets are looking more rabid and crime infested than usual; reports coming in of the gangs acting up. The Trussian mafia is broke and the Cherubs are in retreat. The power vacuum is severe and now the infighting is growing.

You don't like it. You don't like it at all.

You’re lighting your third cigarette when a knock at the door makes you nearly drop it. For a moment you think if it’s the police about to tell you Hercul was found strung up in an alley but you push that thought away. The police tend to call more than report that news to your face. You get to your feet, cigarette in mouth, straighten your clothes, and move to the door. You’re surprised to see a rather haggard and nervous Crowbar.

“Got a second, Droog?” He asks quietly.

You give a vague shrug, which is as close to a ‘yes’ as you would give, and step aside to let him in, “What's up?”

“...nothing really. Just haven't really gone out of the house in a long while.” he says, moving to the window to peak out at the street, “Germaniums are being targeted by police. Supermarkets are charging double with one look at you if they can and harassment is getting more common. Better to stay in.” He moves from the window to sit in a chair with a sigh. “Wondering if it would be better to get out and go...go home.”

You blow out a cloud of smoke. Go home. Home is supposed to be New Jack...but things aren't going well. Does it even _feel_ like home anymore? You know Crowbar’s a Germanium immigrant. He has family back in the motherland he could return to. Maybe he’d be happier there. Maybe not. ”So you going back to Germanium?”

“Maybe…I don’t know. That wasn't home enough for me to stay, not really home enough I want to go back. Besides, the other boys are from different parts of the country. Different sub-groups and all. Hell, two of them are from the Trussian foothills of Hauntsivania than Germanium and get upset when they’re labeled Germanium.” Crowbar sighs, leaning back and bringing a hand to his face to rub his temples. “When the cops are fixing things up around the city, immigrants like us are always the first to get the boot.”

You nod, although you don't know the feeling or at least not anymore. You’re second generation New Jacker. Boxcar was born and raised here. Clubs was from the Fish Belt which isn’t that far from the East Coast so he didn’t have any real culture shock. Spades though…maybe he understood. He is, after all, a first generation immigrant.

“I’d like to leave myself,” You take another brief drag and let it out in a messy cloud, “but not so sure where to go. Don't want to leave the boys behind. Those idiots are practically family.”

“If your friends come to your home for holidays and split a fruitcake with you, they’re family,” Crowbar chuckles with a small, sad smile on his face, “which is why I want to keep them safe and get them out of here before... _pressure_ is turned on us.”

You’ve had your suspicions about whether Crowbar and the other leprechauns were part of a gang that’d fallen out of favor. No doubt their position is a precarious one riding the thin wire between jail and death that leads to possible safety.

Crowbar sits up and looks to the window. “Papers will be hard to get. The ports are closed down tight. Not even sure they would _let_ _us_ leave...would have to get fake papers or smuggle ourselves into Germanium.”

“Sounds like a headache,” you comment. You turn as the door opens and Hercul comes in. Hercul walks over and politely nods to Crowbar and you.

“Hey Dad, hey Crowbar.” He says. He sets a duffel bag full of his training clothes down next to the couch and heads to the kitchen to heat up dinner.

You’ve already eaten you left the boy a giant bowl of pasta and (of course) a heaping helping of barely cooked chicken. His fighting instructor wants him eating protein, so you gave the kid a lot of meat. Now Hercul’s afraid he’ll get too big post-adult molt as he’s already towering over his classmates and the training is making him fill out more. But Hercul has always wanted to be a fighter, ever since you took him to the TUFC fight when he was a kit. He didn’t stop pestering you to let him train, thus you paid to send him to various martial art classes.

No one messes with Hercul. As an adult, he’s going to make a hell of a champion.

You peek at Hercul in the kitchen. He’s pulled off his shirt and unbound his wings. He takes a seat and pulls an old spent car battery into his lap. His wings unfurl and vibrate rapidly, discharging electricity. The wings had been a literal shock. As Hercul had gotten older he developed a static shock. The doctors said it’s a form of psionic build up that released in pulses of electricity. The best way to make sure no one gets shocked is to discharge it safely. The kitchen is the best place since the tiled floor doesn’t hold the static charge like with the carpeted living room. At least you can run your car on Hercul’s electricity. Hercul practically pays for his lessons in what you save in fuel.

Crowbar stands so he can get a look at Hercul. “He’s getting big. What do you feed that kid?”

“Meat. Pasta. _Lots_ of eggs,” You say with a shrug. Hercul finishes discharging and puts the battery into a pack. He gets a small carton of eggs from the fridge labeled just for him and takes one open, cracking the top with a tooth to suck out the raw insides. “Doctor says diet is everything and he wants to be a UFTC fighter.”

“I see no issue with him getting that done. One of his parents was a coldblood. That’s for sure.” Crowbar murmurs, heading to the door, “I'll see you around, Droog.”

You give an off-handed wave. You glance at Hercul, who is looking straight back, tilting his head. “What were you talking about with Crowbar?”

“Eh, he's getting spooked by the anti-Germanium attitude going around. Hasn't been easy for him lately.” You say with a shrug. You walk to the kitchen while Hercul continues sucking down raw eggs like it’s going out of style.  “How where lessons today?”

“Teacher thinks I'm ready for my first real match and wants to know if he can start scheduling them.” Hercul says with an eager smile, “Finally I get my first crack in the ring!”

“Sounds good. Just tell me when they are and I'll get those days off.” You say, ruffling his hair, “For now though, I need to go upstairs and talk to Slick. Don’t open the door for anyone that has no appreciation for pasta or feels like a creep.”

Hercul snickers and nods, “I know, Papa. I know.”

You nod and head up the stairs. Slick should still be in with the little miss.

Damn Crowbar. Now you got a lot on your mind.


	2. family matters

**== >Droog: Be Spades Slick avoiding everyone**

 

You’re in your chair with the newspaper. That’s it. You’re in your chair and you’re not going to talk to anyone. That’s your promise to yourself. Now though…now you have an asshole convention in your living room. There’s Droog of course (can’t have an asshole convention without him). Also, to your extreme displeasure, _both_ your cousins are here. _Both_ Jack Noirs. Your uncle wasn’t creative on names and had named _both_ his sons Jack Noir. There was Jack Noir, who’s looking shit for tits with a peg leg and burnt out on some Cherub drugs, and then there’s Jack Noir the furry. You still don't get why he dresses like that in public.

 

 

Aside from you and your mother (when she was alive), your family is a bunch of loonies. Your father doesn’t count. According to your mother, he got himself shot up in a war with your Uncle Noir…whose name was also Jack. Maybe that’s the only name the whole Noir family can think of, as all the boys are Jack and the girls Jaclyn.

You do your best to ignore your idiot relatives. It’s hard to ignore Droog smoking in his suave suit though and both Jack Noirs keep playing with their knives. Damn them all. They know you too well and know your temper’s too short for them to not outlast you.

Finally, you lower your paper angrily, jutting out your lower jaw, “ _What_?”

“Finally, we get your attention eh?” Droog drawls, lazily blowing out a trail of smoke, “My business can wait until the family business is taken care of though.”

“I don't even know why these two assholes are _here_!” You growl before looking at your cousins, “Why _are_ you two here?”

Both of them stare at you like you’re growing a second head “What?”

“Cousin, we’ve been here living on your floor for two days.” Jack Noir—the furry Jack Noir—says with a strange look on his face. Or in his eyes. Hard to tell with that wolf head thing he wears.

“Since when?” You turn quickly in your chair to shout to the kitchen, “Hey! Honey! Since when were my cousins mooching here?”

Paint exits the kitchen, holding a dour faced silver carapace. Your amazing son. You named him…King? King Arthur? Yes. Your wife named him Arthur and you said bullshit and named him King. So you put both names together. At least he wasn't named Jack.

“For two days.” she says with a smile, “Jack Noir recently lost his home to a ‘misunderstanding’ with some Cherubs in Chiquago and the other Jack Noir got evicted for not paying his bills. Apparently, the Canzian government didn’t believe his ‘species identity disorder’ affecting his bill paying. You said they could stay as long as Ms. Sburbi was okay with it and she was so now they’re here for the time being.”

“I did?” You don’t recall saying that. “I must have regretted that choice immediately and tried to purge it from my memory then. Fine. The Jackasses can stay.” You bury your face in your paper without actually reading it. “This place isn’t big enough for all of us!” 

“That’s what I told you, dear.” Paint says, sitting on the couch next to Droog, “Your one cousin is sleeping in the kitchen under the table and the other’s camped out in here when there’s no one else in it. We should consider moving. We have the money.” She pauses. “Actually…my uncle recently passed away and well, I’ve come into a great deal of land.”

You blink and look at her. “Please don’t tell me you said that _days_ ago and I forgot _that_ too…” you growl.

Paint chuckles and shakes her head. She hands you an already opened letter and you read it. It’s addressed to ‘Ms. Paint’, which is your wife’s maiden name. Some of her relatives like to pretend you weren’t married or that you vanished. Fuck them. You made the holidays enjoyable with booze, obnoxious relatives, and rousing stories. You’re the reason why there are so many rousing stories about their get-togethers now.

Probably why your wife and you aren't invited anymore and just show up.  Ungrateful prudes.

You let your eyes trail over the letter with a frown as you reach for a cigar. You put it in your mouth and your wife leans in to light it. You mumble thanks but keep looking at the letter. It’s a brief letter of affairs: some relative called ‘DD’ fell into a sinkhole and died. He owned a lot of land that he rented out to the trailer parks.

Trailer parks…

You pause and slowly look up at Paint. “You mean…you want to move us _out_ of the city and into redneck troll land? With the inbreeds? And the plague?”

“Well, you always complain that the city has all those things, dear.” Paint says with a patient smile. “There’s room to build there as my uncle’s house was already given to someone else.”

“Of course we _only_ get the land.” You grunt, eyes narrowing as you glare holes into the letter, “No one _wants_ the land because they’d have to be the landlord. We should sell it, take the money, and go somewhere else...like Epsilon.”

Both the Noirs look surprised but a look from you keeps them silent. The three of you are Epsilon immigrants. After your father died, your mother moved the family to New Jack to be around other carapaces and family. You haven’t been back since you were a tiny, angry fedora wearing carapace.

“Now honey...” she begins slowly, “Those people live in such poor conditions with so little. We could really do some good. Clean it up a bit. You could open that bar you always wanted without needing so many clearances as you’d own the land. Less taxes.” She touches your arm, giving you that wide-eyed look that has you growling and melting all at the same time.

“Dear Hussie woman, you’re a bleeding heart,” you growl, “but fine. Let's all move in and become king and queen of the park. Let’s reign above the filth!”

“It will give your cousins good jobs, give us a steadier income along with the janitor work, and you could maybe hire some trolls to help with the bar.” She says with a smile, patting your arm, “You were always good at leading.”

Oh now she’s stroking your ego. Now you know why you married her. Not just because she’s fucking wonderful. She is the greatest thing in your life and you always give a silent pat on the back to past you for being man enough to ask her to the prom and punching out any rivals.

Your past self did something right at least!

Arthur fusses, making a face. You put the letter aside and pick your son from your wife's arms to look at him. “Besides, maybe some sort of fresh air is better for the brat.”

“If the water doesn't kill us.” one of the Noirs grumbles. They yelp when you kick them in the shin.

“Oi! If you live with us, you don't get a say in any shit you moochers! You’re lucky I was drunk when you asked to stay!” You growl again, chewing on the end of your cigar. Arthur giggles and you kick Noir again because got to entertain the baby and baby liked seeing Cousin Noir-Not-Furry being kicked.

Droog snuffs his cigarette in the ash tray, “So you’re getting out of the city. What about the rest of us?”

“A lot of people have already left,” Paint says with a sad smile, “and we’re not renewing our lease since we need a bigger place. I’m sure you could move out if you’d like, Droog.”

Droog shrugs. “Honestly? I’m more or less fine but…I got a friend. Leprechaun. He and his boys are out in the cold and need to find a better haven than the city. Things are getting tough for them after the Cherubs blew out.”

“Fine. Tell them to come. Build Germanium homes in the swamp.” You grumble, shaking your head. “Let’s just let _everyone_ move in.”

Droog smirks. “Hey now. I'm staying in the city. Got a lot of family and Hercul's got a lot of friends. Not best for me to be moving. Do it as a favor for me at least to give Lucky Charms a new place. You owe me a lot.”

“Do not!” But you totally do. Not that you would admit it. Ever.

Your wife gets up and moves back to the kitchen, “I'll start making some calls. I’d love a nice yard for flowers and herbs! Oh, it’ll be delightful!”

You just grumble and bounce your son on your leg causing him to giggle happily, glaring at the three carapaces in front of you. Both Noirs are snickering.

“Are we gonna be a little fifties family? White picket fence and driveway?” Noir Furry says.

You give him a smile that looks more like a grimace, “Why fucking yes and you can be the _family dog_!” you snap.

Your nerves are on edge. Too much change at once that you didn’t cause makes you an angry carapace, but you’re going to accept it because it makes your wife happy. You need more room; you’d see less of your cousins, and who knows? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. You really want to open that bar. A place for people to drink and relax from the city’s craziness. Damn, your wife knows your weak point dreams too well sometimes…

You sigh and sit back. Maybe this won't be so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> I was a little sick, thus why there was a lapse in TS updates. We now return to our scheduled soap opera programming.


End file.
